Insomnia
by surfingrosa
Summary: It's May of the fifth year and Sirius Black's got more on his mind than just OWLs. With dread of the upcoming summer keeping him up all night, he decides his time would be better spent in the common room where at least he can get something done. Little does he know he's not the only one with that mindset. Sirius/OC
1. Chapter 1

"You're not eating, Sirius."

The Great Hall is positively roaring this evening, though that fact proves surprising to an approximate population of zero. The light and the laughter provide a comforting atmosphere on this May night. James Potter, himself, speaks with half of his meal hanging out of his mouth. If someone were to notice a loss of appetite it would be this idiot.

"What - you think I'm not working for this figure?" I say, forcing a smile.

"I wouldn't blame you if you were nervous," to my left, Peter inserts a timid input, "I'm losing sleep over the OWLs, myself."

"Yeah, you would be, Peter," James rolls his eyes. He seems cheerful but after swallowing a mouthful of chicken, he looks me in the eye. I catch a glimmer of concern. "You okay though, mate?"

"'Course," I stab some green beans and stuff them showily into my mouth. Worry isn't an expression that fits James' face; he's easily satisfied. By the time I've swallowed, he's returned to making jokes about Snivellus.

Peter's already rejoined the fun too, but the more acute Remus whispers, "You really are okay, right?"

I give him a small smile. "Nothing I can't handle."

He smiles back, sadly, as Remus always does. Remus has got his demons – the very obvious, wolfish type. Mine are probably more obvious, or at least more notorious. But neither James nor Peter have any in sight, and as Remus isn't complaining it's not my place to start any time soon.

* * *

><p>"Do we really have to study?" James groans on our way back to the common room. "I mean, what's passing the OWLs even going to do for us? Muggles get by just fine without them."<p>

The halls aren't really empty, but they're pretty sparsely populated. With James scarfing down his meal, me barely eating and the Remus and Peter tagging along with whatever the hell James and I do we've left the Great Hall pretty early.

"Muggles go to Muggle school," Remus says, "so they can earn Muggle money."

"Is it too late to cue into my Muggle side?"

"And clean by hand for the rest of your life?" I laugh loudly, "I'd rather take Filch's job, after he's kicked the bucket."

"You know, that doesn't seem like such a bad gig," James turns towards us while walking up the stairs, which is never an advisable idea on the Hogwarts staircases. "You don't have to pass school – hell, you can even be a Squ-"

"James!" Remus shouts, hitting him on the shoulder. "Watch your step!"

"Oh, shit," wobbling in a circle, James turns and finds Filch stopped two steps above him.

"Fuck me," I look down towards the floor in an attempt at hiding my ear-splitting grin. Next to me, Peter's eyes have nearly popped out of their sockets. I lean to him and whisper, "You think he's gonna recover?"

Too shocked to speak, Peter shakes his head no. But James pops a smile right on and says, "Sorry sir, nearly ran you right down."

Filch mutters something under his breath and avoids eye contact while hurrying down the stairs.

"Holy shit, James, I thought you were done for," I pat him on the back.

"Could you be any louder, Sirius?" Peter casts a nervous glance over his shoulder, "He could very well still hear us."

"No way the geezer'll do anything though. We've grazed upon his soft spot."

"It's not particularly nice, though, is it?" Remus casts a glance down the steps.

"Worrying about niceties, that's so like you Moony dear," I throw my other arm over Remus, so he and I and James are squished together like three peas in a pod. "That's our Remus. Savior of the weak and defenseless."

"You know what I mean," sheepishly, he wiggles out from underneath my arm. "It's not particularly in good taste."

"Has Sirius ever once in his life done something in good taste?" James proposes an excellent question. I squint, as if I were intensely considering the question.

"You know, I can't say I have."

"Well there you have it. Dragon Tongue."

"Right you are," the Fat Lady quips while swinging open. James steps in first, while I follow close behind. The room's empty, save a couple of other fifth years who're getting a jump on studying. Talking is hushed, in whispers, so everyone looks up at our boisterous entrance.

"So, what're we up to tonight boys?" James plops onto the couch, completely unaware of the disturbance he's causing.

"Absolutely nothing," Remus slides into a nearby armchair. "While you may try getting by without studying, I'd prefer to pass my exams."

"If Remus is studying, I guess I will too. To keep him company, and all," Peter stutters. While half of me's rolling my eyes, I'm kind of glad Remus spoke up. No way Peter would've voiced his opinion by himself, and that kid really does need to study.

"You all are boring," groaning, James turns his attention to me. "I guess it's just you and me, then?"

"Gosh, however will we salvage the night?" I grin back.

From the corner of the room, someone moans, "Boys."

I look over James' shoulder to see a red head of hair. Though her head's still buried in her book, I'm positive Lily Evans is the culprit.

"Feel free to join us if you get the urge, dear!" James grabs my shoulder and heads back towards the portrait. "I'm sure if you're really motivated, you'll manage to find us."

We're both cackling as we exit the common room, so much so we earn a glare from the Fat Lady. The dinner crowd is starting to pour in. I pull James to the side, so we're not standing right in front of the entrance.

"You've got to give that one up."

"Like hell I will," he looks up, panting slightly. "God, what are we supposed to do now?"

"Hell if I know," I shake my head, "you left the cloak in the dormitories, after all."

James groans, spinning dramatically in distress. "What are we supposed to do then?"

"I'm sure we'll find something."

The suggestion of mischief sparks something in James' brain, so he ceases pacing and grins at me with a glint of malice.

"Oh we'll find something Padfoot. That much I'm sure of."

I grin back because, though I hold Remus and Peter near to my heart, no one can get in trouble quite like James and I can. It's unlikely we'll make it back to the common room before midnight. And that's just the kind of distraction I need.


	2. Chapter 2

As exhausting as an impromptu trip to Honeydukes may seem, as soon as the lights are out and James is snoring I can't manage to doze off. Despite the fact we've still a month left of school the upcoming summer's starting to weigh heavy on my mind. Hence, my lack of sleep. The annoying thing about thinking is that, no matter how hard you try to push something from your mind, the more easily it seems to slip back into your thoughts.

And, to top it off, I've just remembered I've got half a Potions paper to finish.

I lay and stew over my life for ten minutes more before making the decision that, as sleep seems to have evaded me yet again, I might as well not make a total waste of the night. Carefully, I push off my covers, throw on a shirt and tip toe out of the room. I close the door to the dormitories as quietly as I can and, despite a rustle of covers, I don't hear any footsteps coming after me.

I check the clock while walking down the steps. It's almost two in the morning. My first surprise is that the fire's still lit – I've always been curious as to whether or not it stays lit at all times. In a school of magic such a thing is undoubtedly possible, after all, and no matter what time the other Marauders and I waltz in the fire's still going. I've already pictured myself nestled up in the comfiest armchair, flames dancing in the backdrop, when I get a second shock – the armchair's already taken. There're two girls left in the common room. One in my year and one a year older, I think.

My entrance seems to have interrupted their conversation, though I've only noticed just now. I give them a slight nod, resigning myself to completing homework on the couch. I plop on the edge furthest from them, pull out my quill and use my book as a makeshift table. I'm trying as hard as I can not to eavesdrop on their conversation which, after I'm immersed in the essay, is a pretty easy task.

* * *

><p>"Hey, sweetheart. Rise and shine."<p>

"Hmm?" I rub my eyes, opening them slowly. I hadn't planned on crashing in the common room. After finishing the essay I'd taken out my Transfiguration book and studied, just for kicks. My cheek seems to be resting on the bit about Dormish's Theory of Transformation. Guess all that talk of rodents and teacups must've put me to sleep.

When my eyes have adjusted I can make out James leering over me. "You didn't sleep in here, did you?"

Yawning, I pick my head up and respond, "It seems I did."

"What the hell, man?" James looks entirely befuddled. "I didn't dream up Honeydukes, did I?"

"No," I laugh, shaking my head, "you couldn't make that shit up, after all. I remembered I had some homework to do after you'd already gone to sleep. Thought it'd be a waste not to do it."

"You've never thought it a waste before," he moans. By now we're climbing the steps back to the dormitories. Luckily James had woken up and, upon finding my bed empty, went to see where I'd wound up. The majority of the house is still asleep, and, though I don't remember them leaving, the two girls I'd bumped into the previous night have already left the common room.

"Well, if I never do my homework I'll fail entirely. And though I may be able to make it on my looks, divorce rates are on the rise. A modern man's got to be independent."

"Sirius. You are a walking, talking imbecile," he pushes me back in the room, sending me stumbling through the door. I nearly bowl right over poor Moony.

"Christ, Remus, watch where you're walking!" I say. The man knows me well enough to interpret that as an apology. He chuckles quietly while he's exiting. Prefect that he is, he's got morning duties or some other bullshit to take care of.

"Swear to god, Sirius, you're losing it," James mutters, closing the door after himself.

Still with sleep in his eyes, Peter turns and says, "What'd he do this time?"

"Crashed in the common room, would you believe it? Says he was studying, to boot."

"Hey!" I exclaim, "We can't all be as smart as you, Potter!"

The day goes on quite like this, which makes the day easy enough. I've got good friends, so most of the time the bad things in my life get pushed to a dark, quiet corner. But come night the whole world becomes one big, dark corner, and there's no place to shove my problems back into.

Luckily I seem to have found a solution: switch the lights back on. Mindless work is as good a cure for thinking as anything, so at one AM the next night I find myself back in the common room.

I'm shocked again to find the same two girls in the same spot, and they look just as surprised to see me. But unlike the previous night, they recover quickly. Almost as soon as they spot me they've returned to their conversation. I take my same place on the couch and open up my Charms book to the very back.

"Hey. Excuse me. Sirius Black."

I awaken this morning not to James' face looming over me, but one of the girl's. Her name's Nora – Nora Dotum, I think. We've spoken before, but never at any length. Just asking for a quill, what the homework was and the likes. I've never been close enough to see that the freckles on her face run under the collar of her shirt, or that her eyes are a pale, bright hue of blue. I'm too taken aback to speak, but luckily she takes initiative.

"If you don't want to face your friends again, I suggest you head back upstairs now. It's four thirty – they should all still be dead asleep."

"Wow. Um, thanks," I'm surprised, and genuinely touched by her foresight. Her lips twitch up, nearly into a smile, before she turns to amble up the girl's stairs. I myself immediately get up and head back to the dormitories. I take off my shirt and throw it back on the floor so it lies where it usually does – which is, to say, haphazardly on the floor - before nestling back underneath my covers.

The mattress feels unusually cold after being empty all night. I curl up to preserve warmth and, dare I say, chance falling back to sleep. I've got a new issue to mull over now, one which is far less distressing than my family problems but almost as entrancing:

What's the deal with Nora Dotum?


	3. Chapter 3

The third time I enter the common room after hours I seem to have lost the element of surprise; neither of the girls bother to even stop their conversation. I've sat down in the same spot for maybe ten minutes when I sense their talk has taken a turn.

"We should invite him over here."

"Nonsense. He's a complete twat."

"No one's a complete twat, Nora, and if he's going to continue hanging out in the common room this late the least we can do is say hello."

"I'm right here, you know," I mumble, mostly into my book. But the two girls cease talking and, when I look up, they're staring in my direction.

'Awfully sorry," the older girl – Clara, I believe her name is - says, "we don't mean to be rude. We're just used to having the room to ourselves."

"Yeah, sorry," Nora stares into her palms, looking more than a little sheepish.

"Nonsense," I wave my hand. I'm not offended in the least, but I will take this opportunity to start a conversation, "I get called a twat more than you'd think."

"That's not very nice, is it?" Clara widens her already-huge eyes. Though I'd never taken much notice of her before, as she's notoriously off her rocker, I have been able to grasp that she's quite pretty. Slender, though not skinny, with blonde hair that falls like silk around her face, she's the kind of girl I would've banged years ago if doing so wouldn't put a damper on my reputation.

While Clara's turned more towards me, Nora's faded to the background. She's become immersed in homework, or something – whatever it is, she's not looking away from it.

"No, it's not," I reply, "but what're you gonna do about it?"

"You could always try doing something. People talk poorly of me all the time and I never particularly appreciate it."

I feel kind of like I've been kicked in the stomach. I can usually deal with being a horrible person right up until I'm forced to notice I am, in fact, a jerk. I would have preferred if Clara didn't point this out for me.

"To be honest, I don't think I've ever spoken to you," I say, trying to keep my voice light.

"We're in different years, even though we're in the same house," I nod and smile silently while she points out the obvious, "You're Sirius Black."

"That I am."

"I'm Clara," she doesn't seem to have caught the tinge of sarcasm in my tone, "and this is Nora."

"I know," I nod some more. She quirks her head.

"Do you really?" genuine surprise fills her voice, "And here I thought myself rather invisible."

I laugh at this. "Oh no. Hate to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but you're moderately notorious."

"Am I really?" her eyes open impossibly wider. To my surprise, Nora leans away from her armchair and touches Clara's shoulder.

"Don't pay any attention to him," her voice is soft, though not too soft that I can't hear her, "he's just making fun of you."

"What?"

"I am not," I say loudly. And I wasn't – I was just stating the truth. "I'd call myself notorious, too, and you think I'd be making fun of myself?"

"Honestly?" God, the ice in her tone is brutal.

"Yeah."

"Yes," her eyes pierce, like daggers, into mine.

"What?" unconsciously, I've moved a bit further towards her.

"Well you're kind of constantly making fun of everything, aren't you?" she's slides back into her seat, "The world is one big joke to you."

"I can't really argue with you there." I do tend to lack some sense of propriety. Or, more accurately, tend to ignore it. "But at least then there's no need for anyone to feel special. It's not like I've ever singled anyone out or anything."

"Sure you haven't," she mutters.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She doesn't say anything back, but she mouths, "Severus Snape."

"That's a special case if there ever was one. I mean, honestly, you don't like that guy, do you?"

"It's not a matter of me liking him," she says slowly. "No one deserves the shit you put him through, no matter how much of a prat they are."

I'm tempted to argue back, but I'm not really in the mood to justify myself to strangers. "Whatever," I exhale.

After a moment of silence, Clara says, "I guess if you didn't mean anything bad by it, I shouldn't be offended."

"Exactly," I snap my finger. "No ill will."

"Sure," Nora murmurs back.

"What're you all doing up so late all the time, though?" I ask, half to change the subject and half out of genuine curiosity. "Do you all never sleep or something?"

"No," Clara says shortly, "at least I don't, anyways."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Never? You never sleep?"

She shakes her head, "No." Her expression isn't shadowed by even a shade of sarcasm.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. See, my dad found out my mom was cheating, see, and figured that their newborn baby wasn't really theirs at all. So he hexed me. As revenge, or something."

"Your mom whores around and you get the bulk of the punishment?" I say. "What a douche."

Clara visibly cringes back when I said the word whore. I'd apologize, but I doubt it'd make a difference.

"It wasn't easy for her, either," she speaks through her discomfort. "Imagine a five year old who never gets tired."

"Dear god," I exhale.

"And in the long run, I find it quite enjoyable," she smiles, slightly, "without ever needing to sleep, I've picked up all kinds of hobbies. I'm learning my fourth language at the moment."

"Really?" my eyes fall on the book in her lap – not a textbook, as I'd previously thought, but a beginner's guide to Italian.

"Si, es verdad."

"Huh?"

Now she bites her lip, obviously holding back a grin. "It's true."

She remains kind of grinning and glowing, and I realize what discouraged me from chasing her, or thinking of her as attractive or anything – because, let's face it, I'd be stoked to nail the super-hot, super-weird chick.

No, what kept me from hitting on her was her air of innocence. Despite being a year older than me, she's got similar expressions and mannerisms to those of a child. It seems like it'd be all too easy to take advantage of her, sexually or otherwise.

Her friend, on the other hand, I've never approached for the opposite reason. Nora's got this invisible but all-too-real wall around herself. Her eyes are cold, closed off from trusting, and in all our years of school together I can't remember ever really seeing her smile.

"Why're you here?" Clara asks me. "I've never seen you up this late before – well, I have, actually, but you're usually just sneaking in or out with your friends."

My lip twitches up in some self-satisfaction. I lie, though. "Nervous about the OWLs, you know. Can't study with my friends or they'd make fun of me."

"That's bullshit." I glance at Nora – her eyes are fixed on the papers in her lap, but she undoubtedly spoke.

"Excuse me?"

She looks up. "That's bullshit, I said."

"Why ever would you think that."

"Because, while you did take out your book, you jumped on the opportunity to converse with strangers – and really weird strangers, no less."

I bite my lip. "Touché."

"So?"

She waits for me to respond, rather than pressing the question. The room's silent, save the crackle of fire, and I feel obligated to fill it. "It's getting close to the holidays."

"Ah," she exhales. "Family problems?"

I laugh mirthlessly. "Is there any other type?"

She shakes her head, smirking. "I should've guessed. You can't be getting along too well with your family these days."

"That's an understatement," I growl. "My mom's a fucking nightmare."

"You've got Potter though, haven't you?" she leans forward once more, tucking her papers carefully into the space beside her. "How much time do you have to spend at home?"

"Enough," I press my lips into a tight, stretched smile. "Mark my words, mother dearest'll be on my case before she manages to spit out a hello."

"At least you know she cares. Some base part of her must think she's making you better."

"But not for my sake," casting my eyes towards the ceiling, I exhale slowly. "Mum never gave a damn about kids. Just continuing the bloodline. She doesn't care how we turn out, so long as we're bigoted pricks."

"You beat that, though. That's something to be proud of."

I look at her funnily. "I thought you hated me?"

"No," she shakes her head, now wearing a smile that looks half way genuine. "I just think you're overrated."

"Ouch," I mock wince, clutching my heart, "my poor ego'll never recover."

Next to me, Clara mutters something in Italian.

"I've got a feeling it will."

"Yeah," I grin back, "you're probably right. I'm durable like that."

We make small talk for another few minutes, before the room goes silent entirely. I shimmy back to my old spot on the couch, now comfortable with the quiet, and study my way to at least an hour of sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Life continues quite like this into June; days spent laughing with the Marauders, screwing around until the lot goes to sleep. Nights spent by the fireplace, studying or making quiet conversation with my companions. For some strange reason, I felt comfortable telling Clara or Nora things I rarely confess to even James and Remus.

"Why do you think that is?" I asked Nora one night. I'd wormed my way into the armchair that night, so the warmth of the fire nearly soothed me to sleep. "I can talk to you all so easily when – no offense or anything – I can't tell shit to my real friends."

She wasn't offended, though I hadn't expected her to be. Nora is, as I'd discovered, a realist to the point of cynicism.

"The night makes people honest," she'd replied. Her voice barely carried over the crackling of the fire. "Like firewhiskey, it dampens your judgment and heavies your eyes. It's almost not a real world and – when you've woken or sobered up – what you said the night before is all a blur."

Nora's full of gems like that. She says since she spends so much time alone, she's spent plenty of time solving life's least important mysteries.

Neither Nora nor I address our newfound camaraderie. Clara and I nod when we pass each other in the halls, but I think even she knows the bounds of what is and is not socially acceptable for us.

Of course, the rest of the guys were bound to notice this new development.

"Have you always been friendly with that chick?" James asks me one day after we'd done our whole silent greeting bit.

"I wouldn't call it friendly," I grumble, "I was just saying hello."

"You know, I've always thought she's kind of attractive," Remus looks behind us, where her blonde head is bobbing away.

"Really?"

"No way," James argues, "I mean, sure, she's pretty, but there's something totally off about her."

"That's the truth," I chuckle to myself.

Looking at me with sudden incredulity, James asks, "You didn't, like, shag her or anything, did you?"

"What?" I nearly choke on my own spit, "No, no way. She's nuts."

"Alright," James exhales, mock wiping his brow, "just had to be sure."

* * *

><p>Six hours later Clara, Nora and myself are involved in a heated debate.<p>

"You're saying you've never listened to Muggle music?" Nora's normally passionless face is currently incredulous.

"I mean, never at any length. My parents would've killed me," I shrug. "What can Muggles produce that we can't, anyways?"

She laughs loudly, though the sound is dry, "Only everything."

"I mean, surely you've heard of Mozart before," Clara offers.

"Or Jimi Hendrix," Nora's face scrunches rather violently.

I shrug. "Can't say I've heard of either."

"This," Nora exhales, "this is a goddamned travesty."

"I don't get it," I rest my head on my hand, shaking my head. "Wizard music's just as good, isn't it?"

"No," Nora disagrees vehemently, clenching her fists while she speaks, "Wizard music and Muggle music are two completely different ballparks. The Muggle one being the better."

I look her in the eyes. She stares back with uncharacteristic aggression, until she realizes herself and looks away.

"I guess I'll have to try it," I lean back into the couch, pondering mostly to myself.

"It's too bad we don't have a record player here," Clara gazes around the room, perhaps in the hope she's missed one of these so-called records players. "Then again, summer's not too far away. You can find a music store over the break."

My stomach drops at the reminder. "I'm sure my parents will be thrilled with that."

Nora rolls her eyes. "It's not like you can't do things out of the house. There are plenty of places for you to listen to music without bringing it home."

"I know that," I counter, "I'm commenting on the premise itself. Believe me, I'll be spending as much time out of the house as I can."

"I'll second that," Nora mutters.

"What?" I tip my head up eagerly. As of yet, I've heard very little of Nora's home life. Despite the whole single-parent deal, Clara's family is pretty normal. She and her mom are admirably close. On the other hand, Nora keeps her lips sealed tight regarding her family. "Your mum doesn't serve three course meals _every_ day of the week?"

"No," she utters the syllable in a sigh, tilting her head towards the ceiling, "I haven't got a mum."

The grin quickly slides from my face. "Oh."

"I guess I shouldn't say that," she picks her head up to look at me, smiling grimly. "I've got a mum. But she's dead."

"Oh," I repeat. I seem to have forgotten the English language in its entirety. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," she's looking at me now, but she's not. Nora's got this habit of looking past someone, or perhaps at their eyebrow or nose so, if you're not paying attention, she may fool you into thinking she's making eye contact. After three weeks, I've figured out the difference between when she's looking at me and when she's avoiding doing so. "But, what's a girl gonna do?"

"Can I ask what happened?" I say hesitantly. Her forced smile twitches – next to me, Clara shifts in the armchair.

"Maybe some other time," her voice is straining to retain normalcy, "it's not exactly easy to talk about. One thing leads to another, and personally this isn't something I want to dwell on for the whole night."

"Fair enough," I can't say I'm not disappointed but, were I pressed to dish out my family problems, I'd probably refuse, too. Not for any reason against the person, exactly, but because it's damn hard to talk about.

"So, what exactly is a Mozart?"

The exams fly by easily – the extra studying helped heaps, though I'd prefer not to admit that. Soon enough we're just days from break. My anxiety is increasing, but I'm spending less time in the common room. With the exams done and summer closing in, the Marauders and I are squeezing every inch out of the days we've got left.

The last time I see Clara and Nora is two days before break. I'm out and about for the entirety of the next two nights, so I never really got the chance to say goodbye. Our conversation did run pretty close to farewell, though.

"I guess I won't be seeing much of you all, after summer," I'd said.

"Well that's the point, isn't it? It's called a break for a reason," Nora deadpanned. She still had all her papers, even though there wasn't any need to study. I was beginning to assume, perhaps, she wasn't up to something school related.

"Yeah, but there won't exactly be a reunion next year. Not 'till the end of it, anyways. With a whole year to burn, I doubt I'll often have trouble sleeping."

"Oh," Nora said shortly. Her face was blank, but I could discern a hint of surprise from it.

"It's so strange, isn't it? The way we talk here, while we avoid each other the rest of the time. Well, we avoid you, at least," Clara had said. Her voice held no accusation – she was simply stating facts. "Nora and I are friends, easily, but there's not much that could logically tie us to you."

Clara's often too astute for my comfort. "Sometimes I wish there were, you know."

Nora had grinned at that, and spoken through clenched teeth, "'You don't have to lie to make us feel better."

"No, I speak the truth. While we'd have never spoken to you all in normal circumstances, I actually quite like the two of you."

"Well then," her jaw had slackened some, "if you're ever coming in from a long night of – whatever the hell it is you Marauders do - feel free to stop and say hello."

I've never been great at reading people. But I'll be damned if that hadn't meant, _"I actually like you, too."_


	5. Chapter 5

Once summer starts, I'm getting plenty of sleep. As I've already reentered my nightmare there's nothing really left for me to dread the approach of. Sleep is the only respite I get from my horror show of a family.

The third day of break I'm awoken by a prodding in my side.

"Master. Master Sirius."

I groan, rolling away from the edge of my bed. Even while half-conscious, I'm aware there's only one creature in this house that would refer to me as 'master'. I open my eyes and, as my vision creeps back to me, my suspicions regarding the intruder are confirmed.

"Do you need something, Kreatcher?"

"The Mistress would to speak with you. Immediately, sir."

"Speak with me, my ass," I roll up, stretching my arms. "The hag probably just couldn't take me having another half hour of peace."

I go to push myself upright, and by the time I'm sitting Kreatcher's already gone. Though doubtlessly he heard my final comment before leaving – the wretch is probably reporting to my mother at this very moment.

And he left my door hanging open, to boot.

With a yawn, I get up, close my door and lock it. While I'd love to antagonize my mother by sleeping for another two hours, I've got a feeling that as soon as she gets a peek at my new decorations she'll boot me right out of the house. Not that I'd complain.

I wink at one of the girls on the wall. I found some charmed glue upon my last (illegal) visit to Hogsmeade, and picked up a couple Muggle posters on the way home. My wall's now plastered with glossy, gorgeous, stationary photos of scantily clad women.

After throwing on a shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, I start for the kitchen. I've taken to wearing Muggle clothing as one, it annoys the hell out of my parents and two, it's more convenient in the Muggle world. I've been spending as much time outside the house as I can muster.

"Need something, Mother?" I say as I walk into the kitchen. She's sitting at the head of the table, her head hidden behind a newspaper. Morning light lulling in from the windows does nothing to soften her face. She doesn't move when I enter the room.

"Not particularly," she mumbles from the other side of the paper. "I was just thinking that, if you're gonna bother getting up, you should get up at a decent time."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mum," I shrug to myself – I've grown used to these kind of snide jabs. I've yet to do anything to really cause a rift, but Mum knows it's only a matter of time before I'm causing her trouble.

I bark an order at Kreatcher to get me an apple. He shoots a pitiful look at my mother who, in return, says, "Don't make the elf do it. You've got legs, haven't you?"

I'm already halfway to the pantry by the time she says that. While I'm pulling out a piece of fruit I hear another set of footsteps.

"Ah, Regalus!" the newspaper crinkles as Mum folds it in half. She's beaming with that false, thin smile of hers. Regalgus, for his part, is not particularly impressed by her enthusiasm. He takes a seat across from her.

"You sleep well?" he asks. He's gotten so cold, recently. He wasn't quite like that when we were younger – but he's old enough now, he knows he's got to take sides.

"As well as I ever do. You know your father…"

While they're conversing, I slip back out of the room. I'm not in the mood to stay inside, nor am I in the mood to comb my hair. While I only became an Animagi for Remus' sake, I won't deny the trait has its perks. I finish the apple, leave the core on a table before stepping outside. After ensuring no one's watching, I transform. People are easier to deal with, anyways, when you're a dog.

I saunter down the sidewalk, making my way towards the park. It's hot as hell out here, and my shaggy coat's not helping the matter. At noon on a Tuesday, the streets are pretty empty. There're a couple kids playing down the street and an occasional pedestrian, but otherwise not much in terms crowds.

After walking down a couple blocks I reach the park. Typically there're a few kids here whose parents are far enough away that they'll dare to play with a stray dog. The park only takes up a couple blocks in the city; it consists of a few walking paths, trees and a playground. But compared to the litter and concrete outside it's a practical jungle.

I find a huge, shady willow tree and lounge under that for a few hours. It's slightly boring but, as I've often found in summers past, people watching is an enjoyable pastime. And, an added bonus this year, no one takes a dog's stare as an uncomfortable gesture. Despite the occasional mom trying to shoo me away or kid trying to take me home, I'm left alone. The grass is slightly damp, protected by the shadow of the tree, and between the arguing couple and chattering children I can't chose a conversation to key into. Somewhere between the two I start drifting off.

When I awake, I first notice that some of the heavy heat is lifted –which is the first sign that time has passed, despite my previous confidence I'd only dozed for ten minutes. My eyes start adjusting to sight again, and I can see the sun has begun to set. The park is now tinged indigo and orange, and most children are nowhere to be seen. Apart from the occasional jogger, the park's pretty much empty.

This is, approximately, when I see Nora.

At first I think my eyes are playing tricks on me, or that this girl's a lookalike. Because honestly – what're the chances I'd bump into Nora two blocks away from my house? I stand, stretch the sleep from my legs, then waddle forward to get a closer look.

My second conclusion is that I'm hallucinating. The girl I see is, without a doubt, Nora, but that seems completely improbable.

My theories and conspiracies all melt away when Nora glances at me. I freeze mid-step. I know, currently, I'm a dog, but nevertheless some part of me is fearful she'll recognize me. My limbs relax when her lip twitches up. Warily, she stretches her arm out.

It's only when she lightly snaps her fingers that I realize she's trying to call me.

In an act that will make my life extraordinarily uncomfortable should my talent ever be discovered, I decide to wander over to her. I don't particularly enjoy being petted, sure, but the expression she's wearing reels me in more than anything. There's a glimmer of hope in her eye I'm not used to seeing, but a shadow of doubt hanging over it. She seems unsure, afraid I might decide instead to turn and wander away.

She leaves her hand outstretched while I get closer. She holds it away from her body, probably ready to snap back in the event I bite. When we're close I sniff her hand, like a proper dog would. I pause for a second, which gives Nora the opportunity to place her hand tentatively on my head. And then she does something completely uncharacteristic.

She smiles.

I've seen her smile before, surely, but this smile is unquestionably different. Because, were I to describe her previous grins, a more appropriate word would perhaps be something like smirk. She never really smiled out of joy so much as in some wry, cynic humor of the world. Her face is now honestly and genuinely beaming though, as she leans forwards and whispers, "Hello!"

Something about the way she utters the words makes me very sad. It sounds lonely, like she may be holding back tears.

"Good boy," she whispers again, stroking her hand across my ears. Typically, being petted isn't something I quite appreciate. But something in Nora's voice is completely, utterly raw, and I can't bear to rip that from her.

She pets me for about five minutes before, I warrant, she grows tired. She stops with her hand resting on the back of my head. For a while longer we sit beside each other, my side just grazing her leg, while the sun disappears behind the horizon. After the park's gone inky black, only to be lit by lines of streetlamps, she speaks again.

"I've got to go," she ruffles my ears, "I've got some new parents again, and coming home late is no way to set a good impression."

It takes all my effort not to cock my head. As a witch, Nora's undoubtedly intelligent enough to recognize magic from animal intelligence.

"You're a very good dog though," she breaks back into her soothing, baby tone, "very good."

I wag my tail and stick out my tongue in response, because I've got no clue what else to do. It's tough being a dog.

She's satisfied though, and stands to leave. I consider following her out of the park but, should on the off chance Nora ever does discover I'm an Animagi, following her home would be just a touch too creepy. I walk around the park a little longer, trying to discern what exactly just happened. After an hour of drawing blanks I give up, and make the decision to wander back home. I do manage to squeeze as much time as possible out of the trip.


	6. Chapter 6

The house is quiet when I reenter. I've transformed back into a human – the last thing my parents need to know is I'm an unregistered Animagus – and try to move silently through the halls. Unfortunately this house is older than my grandmother's grandmother, and since the floorboards groan no matter how softly I tread I give up pretty quickly and just try to get to my room fast.

I make it past my parent's room entirely silently, and have nearly gotten to my room when I hear murmurs.

"You don't think we'll get caught?"

"Does it matter? We've done it now. Worrying whether or not we'll be caught is useless."

"Still, they're buckling down on this stuff. I don't want to go to Askaban."

"Well you can't whimp out now – you've already bloody done it, haven't you?"

"Still – "

I jiggle the handle and find it unlocked. Regulus, my dearest brother, is an idiot. I push the door open and stick my head in. I find Regulus and our good cousin Bellatrix inside, both looking like they've been caught with their pants down.

"Ah," I sigh lightly, "I'm interrupting a family reunion, I see."

"Why don't you go jack off to some Muggle porn, Sirius," Bellatrix sneers. She's quicker to recover than Regulus – probably because she's less afraid of repercussions. She's too far off the deep end to spare any thoughts towards consequence.

"See, I was right in the middle of that, but all this talk kept distracting me. Couldn't get a good hard on."

"Go back to your room, Sirius," Regulus murmurs.

"But then I won't be able to hear you," I mock whine.

"I'll tell Mom about your new decorations."

"Be my guest," I say, "it might give her the heart attack we've all been craving."

I shut the door anyways, mostly because I've lost interest in their conversation. But, also, because I'm dog tired, and if Regulus really does tell Mum I doubt I'll be sleeping for a week.

But it doesn't take long for Mum to discover the posters. I only had to wait 'till the next morning, in fact.

"SIRIUS!"

I barely look up from my book towards the shriek. I'm in the living room, which is unoccupied; otherwise I'd have skulked back to my real room. I shout, "Yeah?" back, and get a chorus of stomps in response.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"

She walks through the entryway and man, if looks could kill, I'd be dead on the spot. Her eyebrows are stretched three inches above her eyes, and her entire body's stiff with rage. Spittle flies out of her mouth while she screams.

"LIKE YOU WEREN'T ENOUGH A DISAPPOINTMENT ALREADY – MIND YOU, WE ARE ALL AWARE OF ALL YOUR LESS-THAN SATISFACTORY QUALITIES WITHOUT YOU HAVING TO REMIND US – YOU HAD TO FLAUNT YOUR FILTHY BELIEFS, TOO? BRINGING MUGGLE THINGS INTO THIS HOUSEHOLD, JUST TO GET UNDER MY SKIN, WELL IT'S WORKED – LOOK AT ME WHILE I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

I glance away from my book. I'm slightly shriveling inside, but I have way too much fun antagonizing my family to let a little anxiety stop me.

"Sorry, I just got to the good part. Could we put this off a couple minutes more? I swear I'm almost through."

This spurs another yelling fit, which, at this point, I'm used to tuning out. I pretend to read until, finally, I sense the room's gone quiet.

"You're not even listening, are you?"

"'Course I am, Mum" I stare at the letters on the page, "I've got bad friends, bad opinions, bad attitudes – all in all, I'm a big letdown. But at least there's Regalus," I look up, "that cover it?"

In an uncharacteristic gesture of resignation, Mum sighs.

"Honestly, at this point I think pulling you out of that school would be the only thing to set you straight."

"WHAT?" I leap out of the chair. The book slips from my fingers and falls, with a clunk, to the floor. "Are you insane?"

"You don't care about your family's opinions, that much is clear. That school's planted ideas in your head - heaven knows I had qualms sending you there from the start. I'll talk to your father about sending you to Durmstrang tonight. I should have done so before Hogwarts ever got its hands on you."

She turns, walking back towards the kitchen.

"You can't," my voice is pleading, while I chase my mother out of the room. "I've only got two years of school left, anyways. I'd never adjust."

"You should've thought of that earlier."

"I'll fall behind in my classes, have no friends-"

"Is that my problem?"

"YOU'RE COMPLETELY MAD!" finally, I resort to yelling, "YOU'RE A DAFT, BIGOTED BITCH WHO CAN'T CAN'T STAND FOR ANYONE ELSE TO BE HAPPY, AND YOU'RE GOING TO BE BITTER AND ALONE 'TILL YOU'RE SIX FEET UNDER."

"Enough, Sirius," she turns sharply, so I nearly topple over her. "This decision is final."

"Well, fuck you then," I hold back the urge to slap her. I storm away instead; the hall passes in an angry blur until I've made it out the door. It's cloudy out. The air's heavy with rain and I've got no clue where I'm going to go. I just need to get out of that house.

I walk down the street, taking the opposite path I did yesterday. Throughout the trip I deliberately choose to turn down streets I usually don't turn down, so eventually I find myself in a part of town I've never seen. I'm perusing Muggle shops, considering the notion I may be completely, utterly lost, when I glance a record store. My mind flicks back to a memory of Clara and Nora swearing on Muggle music. My parents would freak out if I brought home records. So, naturally, I jaywalk across the street and pull the store door open. A bell jingles while the door's swinging, but I can barely hear it above the music.

The place is painted beige, but the posters plastered overtop combat the mundane color. There are rows upon rows of what I'm assuming are records. About six or seven other people are browsing through; unsure of what to do, I take heed from the closest woman and start pushing through music. Unfortunately, I've got no clue what I'm looking for.

"You lost?"

I spin around, stumbling to form an excuse as to why I'm in the store, when I meet eyes with Nora. She's smirking, looking particularly smug, and I can guess she's satisfied knowing she's the one who led me here.

"No, actually," I cross my arms, "I decided to come here all by myself."

Which is not entirely a lie.

"Really?" she cocks an eyebrow, "What, you trying to impress some Muggle girl?"

"Piss off my parents, actually."

"Well you're in luck. That's pretty much why rock was invented," she casts a glance at the records in front of us, "though, if you're trying to aggravate your parents, Jazz probably isn't you're best choice."

I look back at the music – I was grazing through a section titled "Bebop".

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" I murmur.

"It means they'll love it – if your parents are anything like mine, at least."

"I doubt that," I grumble.

Her lip twitches nearly into a smile. "Come on. I'll show you where the real noise is."

She leads me to a different row of music, this one much longer than the last. She attempts helping me find what I'm looking for, talking me through genres and styles, but it's hard when I have no particular experience with Muggle music.

"Just get Led Zeppelin then," she sighs, resigned, "it's obnoxious enough to frustrate your parents, and good enough to play 24/7."

"You'll have to help me with the money."

"Of course."

I hand my money over to her and we fall silent. I notice the music for the first time since I've walked in. The song's changed, I think, but I can't see how it's any different.

I work up the courage to say, "I didn't know you lived around here."

"Moved recently," she keeps her eyes on the cash. "My old foster family moved to France. Rather than relocate locations, I just changed households."

I struggle internally for a second before, in a show of wizarding ignorance, I force myself to ask, "What's a foster home?"

She looks up. "It's something like an adopted family, except the family doesn't actually adopt the kid. It's where they stick kids who don't have anyone else to take care of them."

"Oh."

"Yeah," she says, "I can take you at the register, if you'd like."

"Sure thing," I follow her towards the counter. "Wait, you work here?"

"Yep," she taps a nametag I hadn't noticed before. After sliding behind the counter she approaches the register. She seems to have some trouble with the buttons - she presses them several times before the drawer pops out.

"Sorry," she mutters while sorting the cash in, "I'm new at this, and bloody awful. What were you saying?"

"Your job," I respond.

"Right," she shuts the drawer with unnecessary force. "The Muggle age of adulthood is eighteen, see, and I'm only two years away. I need to get some cash if I'm gonna be independent."

"Muggle independence isn't quite independence," I murmur.

"Yeah, but it's the type I know best. Which makes it easy," she puts my new album into a paper bag and hands it to me. "I've got no fucking clue what I can do in the Wizarding world, while in this one? There are plenty of options."

"I still don't see that working out for you."

"Pureblood," she scoffs, "you can't see anything non-magical."

I'm about to head out the door, but thoughts of being home again are starting to permeate my mind. "You think we could hang out sometime, or something? My family's kind of a pain."

She gives me a long look, before replying, "I'm here every day except Sunday, one to eight. I don't have much to do – and what I do have to do isn't anything I'd particularly care to keep you out of. Stop by any time around closing."

"Thanks," a grin spreads across my face, "I don't know bloody anyone around here."

"Don't you go to James', or something?"

"Not for another week or two."

She shrugs, saying, "That's not too bad."

"Trust me. In my house, it's time enough to put someone in their grave."

"I'll take your word for it," she chews her lip a second, before saying, "I don't suppose you have a record player, do you?"

"Can't say I do."

"Right," she glance around the shop. "Come this way then. We'll find you the cheapest goddamned record player in the city."


	7. Chapter 7

No one greets me when I reenter the house. I close the door quietly and sneak to my room – this new record player will work best coupled with the element of surprise. I've nearly made it to my room when, alas, I'm caught red handed.

"Yelling back only makes it worse, you know."

Regulus, apparently having heard my reentrance, has popped his head out his door. I turn, shrugging my new merchandise to my chest, and reply, "I don't think bottling it in will make it any better, though."

"For Christ's sake Sirius, you're just a year short of seventeen," he steps forwards. The door creaks loudly while falling into the room. "Would it kill you to just roll over for another couple months?"

"I'm not like you Regulus. Sometimes I wish I was – beliefs and all," my tone harshens, and Regulus shifts uncomfortably back. "but, all things considered, I like having my own opinions and stuff."

"You think I don't have those, too?"

"Of course I do," I nod, "I think you keep those to yourself though, so no one has anything to hang over your head."

He crosses his arms, and I can feel the air tense when he says, "And what if my own opinions are worse than Mum and Dad's?"

"They very well could be. But," I shrug, ignoring the atmosphere, "I've known you all your life. You may be a dick, but there's a part of you that's a decent person, too. However small it may be."

He laughs dryly. "And you've been an idiot since I can remember, you know."

"Have not," I sniff. Then I say, more quietly, "We haven't talked like this in ages, you know."

"Not since you were sorted into Gryffindor."

"Exactly," I snap my fingers, grinning. That we may never speak like this again hangs ominously, a fact we both think but we dare not utter.

"I don't think Mum will actually send you to Durmstrang," he maintains careful eye contact while speaking, "keep your head down. Get to James' as soon as you can. I doubt she wants to explain your sudden disappearance to her Pureblood friends."

"She loves her gossip, but can't stand being the center of it," I mutter.

"She may be a hypocrite, but she's not all bad."

"Yeah, well you're nearly a Death Eater yourself."

Instantly, I regret my words. His jaw clamps shut, shadow falling over his previously animated face. His expression barely moves when he says, "I'm going to pretend like this conversation never happened, and I sure as hell don't want to know what's in that bag. I suggest you take my advice. But I doubt that'll ever happen."

"Regulus – "

"Goodnight, Sirius," his face softens for a second before he steps back in his room. The door creak is shorter and sharp when he slams it shut.

* * *

><p>I'm too tired to set up the record player that night, but I get right to it the next day. The instruction manual proves entirely useless, and even after I've managed to assemble the thing I can't make it work. Finally, I find the outlet the manual's talking about – and, I must say, I'm baffled as to how it got in our house– and after plugging it in it doesn't take me much longer to get the record playing. I turn the volume up, but no one comes storming up the steps. I guess my mum figures if she ignores my antics, they'll go away.<p>

Unfortunately for her, the music's actually good. Nora's circled tracks on the back of the record for me, which I assume to be her favorites; I listen through all the songs, and excluding a track or two her recommendations are spot on. The album ends, and I flip it to start again. By the second time it's finished it's no longer interesting enough to capture my singular attention, but I restart the album for background noise while I do other things.

Eventually, I decide to buy another record. I can't keep listening to the same thing over and over again, after all. As a bonus, the day's nearly over. I may be able to catch Nora at the end of her shift – which'd buy me a few hours out of the house.

I don't announce my departure while leaving. No one asks where I'm going, or chases me out the door, so I figure I'm allowed to go out. Finding my way back to the music store is tough, but I've got plenty of time to spare. The city grows darker and darker while I'm ambling around. When I reach the store only the last remnants of sunlight linger; streetlamps are starting to flick on, and the work crowd is thinning.

The bell jingles again when I walk in. The store's empty now, save Nora and another worker.

"Back already?" she says, smirking. She looks somewhat surprised to see me, but not as shocked as I'd thought she'd be.

"I had nothing better to do," I excuse myself with a grin. "It's boring as hell at my house."

"Poor baby," she mock pouts.

"I'll introduce you to my mum if you'd like. I'm sure she'd have a thing or two to say about you."

"I'll pass, thanks," she grimaces. "So, you here to shop, or just for the company?"

"A bit of both," I amble back to the records section I previously browsed. "The Led Zeppelin shit definitely served its purpose."

"Which was?"

"Annoying my parents."

"Ah. We know our shit, us Muggles."

I cast a nervous glance at her coworker.

She follows my gaze and smirks. "What? You think he's gonna tell on us?"

"You never know…"

"Not if you've never been a Muggle, you don't," she shakes her head, "as for the rest of us, well, the wizard jargon's completely rubbish."

"I'll trust your judgment on this on, seeing as it hasn't failed me yet. Which leads me to a transition point," I inhale in anticipation of the impending shit storm, "I actually kind of liked the music."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Kind of?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "Alright, it was great. You got any other recommendations?"

"Well if you liked Zeppelin, I guess I can trust you with some Hendrix."

She rummages through the racks, though searching takes less time than it did yesterday. The record seemingly attracts her hand; her fingers skim maybe three other albums before darting towards this one. She holds it towards me, almost religiously.

I take it from her and look it over. "Has anyone ever spelled Jimi like that?"

"I mean, apparently Jimi Hendrix did. He also overdosed on drugs though, so I wouldn't trust everything he's come up with. But his music's phenomenal."

"Overdosed?" I glance up, baffled.

Her eyes go hugely round. "Oh Christ. You really are clueless, aren't you?"

"What?"

Rather than answer my question, Nora takes my record to the register. While she's ringing me up, I ask, "So, you want to hang out after this?"

"Actually, I've already got plans."

"Ouch," I wince. "Whatever then."

She looks up at me, smirking again, "I'm kidding. Didn't I say if I had plans, anyways, you could tag along?"

"No, no, I don't want to intrude," I pretend to be hurt, waving my hands, "I'll make sure to schedule an appointment next time."

"For Christ's sake, Sirius, I'm just hanging out with my foster siblings. Just give me another ten minutes, I've got to close up the shop."

I wait around, hanging off the countertop, while Nora and her coworker bustle around the shop. The lights go off, and she ushers me out the back door. She locks it shut and tosses the keys to the other guy before turning back to me.

"So, tell me, how many Muggles have you met before?"


	8. Chapter 8

**I'll go ahead and apologize for the super-late upload. I have no excuse. I'm just underachieving. It is a little longer though. Thanks for reading anyways!**

Nora and I are walking in the opposite direction of my house – not that I mind, really. We've passed through the commercial street we were previously on, and are currently in a rather shady area of neighborhoods. The houses are tall and skinny, packed tightly together. The streetlamps are all on and the front windows are barred. Somewhere all too close for my liking, a car alarm shrieks.

"You've got your wand on you, don't you?"

"'I'm a Half-Blood. Not and idiot," Nora glares at me, "honestly, you think I'm dumb enough to run around unarmed?"

"I wouldn't consider it completely out of the cards," I mutter.

"Keep talking, Black. I'll leave you to fend for yourself."

"The horror," I mock groan, "what I'd do, without you to protect me – I can't even dream."

Her lips quirk into a dry smile. "Yeah, undoubtedly you'd be fine. You might have to go home though."

"Sheesh, enough with the threats. I'll shut my mouth."

She laughs out loud now, though not quite fully in the shadow of the city streets.

"Oh, you can't do that Sirius. Then I'd be talking to myself – and I can barely manage a conversation even with you here."

"Is that some strange variation of a compliment?"

"No," she shakes her head, smirking.

"I think it is," I leer closer to her.

"I take it back. Shut your goddamned mouth."

I make a show of pressing my lips together, widening my eyes.

"Yeah, that's about perfect," she points just ahead of us, "that's the place."

I'm not sure how she managed to pick it out, because it looks identical to every other house down this street. Maybe she knows the house number or something.

"Who am I going to visit, anyways?" I ask while we're walking up the steps.

"I told you, my foster siblings." She knocks on a brass knocker three times, before leaning over and jamming on the doorbell about twice that much.

I peer nervously into the windows. "Yeah, you said that, but exactly who are they – for Christ's sake, that's absolutely obnoxious."

Nora doesn't get the chance to ring the doorbell a time more, though, because the door itself swings open.

"Jesus Christ Nora, have you matured since grade school?"

A girl's opened the door, one who's probably a year or so older than Nora and myself. Her face screams artificiality – she's got piercings through her nose, eyebrow, and every inch of her ears, more eye makeup than eye itself, and hair bleached whiter than my sheets. If she took all the makeup off she might be very pretty. But it's hard to tell through all the stuff – as it is, the effect is a little overwhelming.

"Not an ounce," Nora smirks up, wearing nearly the same genuine grin she'd worn at the park. "You gonna let us in or what?"

"You in, sure, but I've got no clue who the hell this bloke is," she glares pointedly over Nora's shoulder.

"I'm Sirius," I grin and wave back in an attempt to maintain cheerful, Muggle protocol.

"He's fuckin' chapper, isn't he?" she mutters.

"Usually he's a prat," Nora shoots a glance back at me, grinning devilishly, "he's just trying to impress you, 'cuz he's out of his comfort zone."

"Well that I understand well enough," the girl steps forward and sticks out her hand, "I'm Cindy."

I take her hand and shake it. For such an intimidating face, she's got remarkably soft hand. I push back a wince when her fingers clamp down – more true to appearance, she's got a fucking strong grip.

"Come on in, then," after releasing my hand she reenters the house. Nora follows after her and I tag along, shutting the door behind me.

"Hey, Nick! We've got company!" Cindy yells while leading down the hall. The house is larger than the exterior would lead one to believe. We walk through a small hall before entering a fairly sized kitchen-living room area. A large eyed, skinny kid's lounging on the couch. From the state of his rather lean muscles and his sandy, disheveled hair, I'd guess he's our age or younger. And, in all likelihood, he's Nick.

"Tell me it's a pizza!" he yells back, though we're now in the same room as him. He's watching a moving picture on what I believe is a television. Whatever it is it must be fascinating - he doesn't dare look away from it.

"Even better!"

At this, he looks up. There's a hint of excitement in his eyes, and when his eyes meet Nora's his smile widens.

"You said better," he whines, despite his grin.

"You want a pizza, you order one," Nora folds her arms.

Feeling bold, I say, "I could go for some pepperoni, myself."

"Alright, I'll do it. Anything besides pepperoni?" he gets up, shooting off for his kitchen. He asks, "And who the hell are you, mate?" while he flies right by.

"Sirius," I reply. "I'm one of Nora's friends from school."

"From that hoity-toity artsy place?" he speaks with his back to us while rummaging through already-cluttered counters. "Tell me, what's it like there? Nora won't say two words about it."

I look to Nora for help – how does one explain Hogwarts to non-parental Muggles, anyways? To my relief, she speaks for me.

"For Christ's sake, it's summer Nick. You really want to talk about school?"

"But you never say anything about it," he groans. He's ceased tearing around, and clenches a piece of paper in his fist. "It's curiosity only, Nora."

"If you're so curious, maybe you should've stayed in school," she looks up a second after she speaks, biting her lip to half-hide a smirk. She makes herself at home, plopping into Nick's seat on the couch. I follow her actions and slide into a nearby armchair.

He stops suddenly while marching across the kitchen. Though he scowls at Nora, I realize he's also reached some kind of Muggle device. While fiddling with it, he says, "Shut the hell up why don't you. No, not you-" he jumps nearly through the ceiling. Pressing the device more firmly between his shoulder and ear, he says, "I'd like to place a delivery please. Large pepperoni pizza."

A sudden, light pressure draws my attention. Nora's hand's on my knee, and she's leaned close.

"As far as they know, I go to Benjamin Academy for the Arts," she whispers, "I'm on a scholarship. For visual shit. Life is absolutely mundane."

"Mhm," I respond feebly. For some godforsaken reason, I can't tear my eyes from a spot of freckles on her nose. This close up, they look kind of like a crescent moon.

"Sharing secrets, are we?" Cindy slips into seat beside Nora. "Is life so different for you gifted kids you can't share with us regular folk?"

"'Course it is," I laugh. The irony of her words absolutely kills.

"Pizza will be here in half an hour!" Nick yells from the kitchen. Neither girl pays much attention to him.

"God, I'd kill to attend some high-caliber arts school," Cindy casts her head back, groaning dramatically.

Smiling slightly, Nora says, "You ought to audition somewhere. You're half decent – you may get in."

"Getting in would be no problem. But there's no way I could pay tuition, and I'm not good enough to get a scholarship," she sighs, melancholy pervading her breath, "I guess success is only for the already successful."

"Mum and Dad could take in a couple more foster kids."

"And then kill them?" Nora asks.

"Precisely," Nick winks at her. He takes a seat in the only remaining chair, right across from mine. "In all reality though – what's this kid's deal? He your boyfriend or something?"

"Oh, hell no."

"No way."

Nora and I look at each other, both grinning.

"Didn't know you found me so repulsive," I mock whine.

"I could say the same."

"It's a good thing I found this out before I asked you to the Yule ball," I say mistily, pretending to squint into the distance. "That could've proved disastrous."

"Shut the hell up, why don't you," she rolls her eyes.

"You all get along pretty well," Cindy interrupts. Nora rolls her eyes, but she smirks nonetheless. "Honestly, I'm surprised Nora hasn't mentioned you before."

"Yeah," shrugging, Nick says, "the way she talked, we'd just assumed Nora didn't have friends whatsoever."

"Hey!"

Nick throws his hands in front of his face, bracing himself for the impact of the cushion Nora's just pulled out. But before she can throw it the doorbell rings.

"That'll be the pizza!" he darts out of his chair and into the kitchen before anyone can say a word.

I cast a sly glance at Nora, hoping she'll inform me as to what the hell's going on. I hear the door open, then a brief shuffle of interaction. The door shuts, and Nick is back with a large box in his hand.

"Swear to God, they take forever even though they live just down the street."

"That's why they're cheap," Cindy mutters while standing. The room begins to smell heavenly, and when Nick opens the box up the savory scent is for a moment overpowering.

"Hey!" Cindy's reached towards the box, but Nick swats her hand away. "No money, no pizza."

"That's not fair. You'll let Nora have a piece, undoubtedly."

"And her friend too. They're guests," his concentration is more focused on the pizza box. He seems to struggle inside for a second, before pulling out a slice. He catches strings of cheese in his mouth before taking a bite.

"I'm a guest, too," Cindy grumbles.

"You're my sister. You are never a guest, regardless of whether or not you live in my house."

"Yeah, Cindy," Nora gets up.

I stand to take a slice of pizza too, before what he says really strikes me as odd.

"Hold up," I say, "this is your house?"

"'Course it is," he says through a mouthful of food.

"So," I squint between him and Cindy, "which one of you is older?"

At this, Cindy breaks into a laugh. Nick, in contrast, looks somewhat mopey.

"I'm the little sister," Cindy says. She's got hand on her mouth to hide her grin.

"Wears enough makeup you wouldn't be able to tell," Nick grumbles.

"Oh, fuck off, Nick, you look like you're thirteen."

"I do not!"

"So how old are you all then?" I interrupt.

Looking reluctant, Nick says, "I'm twenty."

"And I'm fourteen," Cindy adds.

"What?" I exclaim.

Nora's smirking to herself and, after neatly finishing a final bite of pizza, says, "I thought the same exact thing first time I met them."

"So you're living on your own, then?" I look at Nick while grabbing my own slice of pizza. To my disappointment it's lukewarm, and the grease gets all over my fingers. I take a bite and nevertheless, I find it to be pretty damn tasty.

"Sure am."

"What do you do for a living, then?"'

He cracks a small, slightly abashed smile at this. Cindy's grinning ear to ear once more, and Nora herself looks smug.

"Yeah, Nick, why don't you tell him what you do for a living?" Nora goads him.

"It's nothing much really," he shrugs uncomfortably.

"That's a bit euphemistic," Cindy says, laughing.

Nick stands by the counter, stiff as a board and absolutely seething.

"C'mon, Nick. We're all waiting."

He stews for a moment more, before finally admitting, "I'm a drug dealer."

Nora and Cindy both roar with laughter while I stand, bewildered. The pizza crust nearly slips out of my hand.

"Sorry, what?" I say.

"I only deal pot," he says defensively, entirely ignoring my question.

"And psychedelics," Cindy retorts.

"Just a few shrooms though!"

"Wait," I interrupt, "you mean to say you're-"

For some reason, my brain can't come up with a label besides "Muggle criminal".

"He's an idiot, is what he is," Cindy finishes for me.

"It's just a temporary thing," Nick turns to me now, though I feel like he's talking mostly to himself. "It's just to pay rent until I can get a real job."

"You want a real job, you shouldn't have dropped out of school," Cindy mumbles.

"Fuck off, why don't you!"

She waves her hands, "Just saying. Sheesh."

"So what do you do, then?" I ask. I'm genuinely curious – it's doubtful I'll ever run into another Muggle criminal, after all.

"What do I do – dear god kid, have you never bought drugs?"

I shake my head. Cindy and Nick exchange an incredulous look.

"You mean to say – how old are you then?"

"Sixteen."

"You're sixteen years old," he continues, emphasizing his speech with sharp hand gestures, "and you've never bought drugs?"

"Never used them, either."

"No way," Cindy exhales, as if the idea's completely mind-boggling.

"You know most normal, well-adjusted teenagers have no need to do drugs, right?" Nora says.

"Well no one's really got a need to do them, have they?" Nick shrugs, "They're just a damn good time."

"This does beg the question though," Nora eyes me carefully, "have you ever been drunk, even?"

"Nope," I say. I mean, I've drank firewhiskey a time or two. But I've never been smashed – I've seen a drunk person or two in my time, and I can't claim I've ever come close.

"That's it," I jump when Nora smacks her hand on the counter, "I'm getting Sirius Black drunk."

"Wait a second," I say, "You can't just get me drunk. That's an agreement I've actually got to, you know, agree to."

"Are you gonna argue?" she raises an eyebrow.

I hesitate, before grumbling, "No."

"Nick," she spins in the stool, "how soon can you get me alcohol?"

"By tomorrow, if you'd like."

"Hell yeah I'd like," she turns again to me. "Sirius Black, you'll show up at the record store at eight 'o clock sharp, won't you?"

Anticipation's starting to build in my gut. I grin widely.

"Hell yeah I will."

"Then it's settled," she stands. The wood groans against the tile when Nora pushes the stool back under the counter. "Tomorrow night, Sirius Black and I will be getting intoxicated. And, while I thank the both of you for your hospitality, it's nearly eleven."

I cast a glance at the clock. Where the time went, I couldn't say.

"Your mom keeps a strict curfew, and I'd appreciate not having a meeting with my social worker."

I feel a light pressure on my head, and wince slightly.

"And you've got to get this one home before bed time," Cindy ruffles my hair, and she doesn't do it lightly. I playfully swat her hand away.

"I'm older than you, you little shit," I say.

"Yeah, yeah. You still haven't done drugs," she shakes her head, like that's something I should be ashamed of.

"You're too young for this shit anyways, Cindy," Nora articulates my own thoughts.

"Don't be such a prude!"

"Whatever!" we've edged away from Nick and Cindy, and towards the door, but Nora doesn't raise her voice to yell. She doesn't say goodbye, either, before sliding out the door. A little disinhibited, I do shout a "bye" behind me before following her back into the outside world.


	9. Chapter 9

The following day turns out to be extraordinarily uneventful, featuring myself avoiding my family like the plague and them doing me the same courtesy. The only interesting occurrence is an owl from James, which said his dad could come and pick me up in about four days. So I've got that to look forward to, at least.

My mother's completely giving me the cold shoulder; she refuses to even acknowledge my presence. The absence of critiques is slightly relieving. But I can tell that, now, she considers me a lost cause. And that leaves a small part of me in pieces.

So I channel my grief into my typical outlet: rebellion. Rather than dealing with my family's mopey faces I hide out in my room, blasting Muggle music until it's late enough I can justify going out. This pivotal turns out to be five pm. I've got a long walk ahead of me.

I kill time at a pet store between my house and the record store. Now that I know how it feels to be a dog the whole place has a different atmosphere. There are only three dogs in the window; one's dead asleep, and one's not far behind him. My favorite is the littlest one, who's prancing right over the sleeping dogs' heads.

I stick my finger through the bars of the cage and he skips right up to me. He takes a second to sniff my finger. Just as I'm about to stroke his little snout, he clamps his teeth into me.

"Fucking hell!" I exclaim, tugging my hand outside. The shopkeeper shoots me a dirty look, which I return to him twofold. I glare at the dog, for good measure, before continuing my trek down the street.

It's sweltering outside, the kind of day that the humidity's nearly tangible. Clouds hover ominously overhead, and between the gray skies and heavy air I've no longer any desire to dawdle on the streets. Sure enough, as soon as the record store comes into view drops of hot, heavy water begin pelting from the sky. Rain starts scarce, but after five drops have fallen suddenly it's pouring. I race to the store using my arms as an umbrella. I reach the door, pull it open and slam it shut in nearly a breath.

I find myself completely soaked. I try wiping water from my face, but my drenched arm only hinders the process. I have to blink the rain from my eyes – when my vision's clear again I see Nora and her coworker both starting from the counter.

"You're early," Nora deadpans.

I look around wildly, as if I've just noticed the fact. "Bloody hell, you're right!"

"Hey," she says, her voice sharp as a knife, "no need to get smart."

"'Course not, love. I'm a born genius."

She groans loudly, rather than come up with a response. I take this as an indication of victory, though if someone were to ask in what battle I wouldn't have an answer. I plop down on the carpet beside the counter, creating a small puddle around me, and continue antagonizing Nora.

"What song is this?" I crinkle my nose, "it sounds familiar."

Nora's eyes absolutely light up at this.

"Maybe because it's Hendrix?" she suggests, a grin creeping onto her face, "and maybe because you took that record home and listened to it?"

I pause with my mouth hanging open for a good five seconds before exclaiming, "You got me!"

"Damn straight I did!" she pumps her fist into the air, "another wizard conversion, check."

"Wizard?" her coworker eyes her quizzically.

"School slang," she waves him off, "another word for nerd."

He continues gawking for a second, so I'm nearly convinced our jig is up. Then he says, "Weird lingo floating around that fancy school of yours."

"Yeah," she shrugs, "but you know how trends go. It all gets picked up anyways."

He returns to sorting through records, while I gape at Nora in astonishment.

"I told you," she looks at the floor instead of at me, hiding a smile rather poorly, "it's complete rubbish."

I look between her coworker and herself, before responding, "I'll be damned."

Her coworker turns out to be a rather nice chap, despite the giant stick up his ass, and as the rain keeps the majority of customers away he and Nora spend the afternoon educating me in music. By the time eight o'clock rolls around – well I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I'm not longer a novice either.

"It's too bad we don't have record players at school," I say, observing the stack of albums we've compiled, "if they were something I could drag around with me I'd consider investing."

"You don't have record players at that school?" her coworker asks, astonished.

I've only just realized I've put my foot in my mouth. Luckily Nora comes to my rescue again.

Barely looking up from the cash register, she says, "Administrators consider it a distraction. They seem to think it'll drain our creative abilities, or some other bullshit."

"That's ridiculous," he exhales, though at this point he's only half listening.

It's only now that I'm fully aware that, no matter what slips out of my mouth, nothing I say is going to give this man even the slightest inkling that there's such thing as magic. Slowly, a grin starts spreading across my face; my head starts getting woozy with power.

"Isn't it?" I cast a malicious grin at Nora and, for maybe the first time in our friendship, alarm flickers through her eyes, "I swear, I could absolutely _curse _whoever's in charge."

I hear a slight gasp from Nora, though it passes her coworker unnoticed. He looks up from his work, smiling in a sort of pitying manner, and says, "That would be satisfying. But you'd certainly be expelled for that kind of behavior."

"Oh undoubtedly," I say, "but it'd be worth it, just to put a_ spell_ on them."

"Careful," a tentative smirk has made its way over Nora's face, "you don't want to_ jinx_ yourself."

"Damn! You're right. I might as well be a_ Hufflepuff_ for as dumb as I'm getting."

The man stares between the two of us, dumbfounded.

"Christ. It's like a fucking cult up there, isn't it?"

Nora exhales a breathy, humorless chuckle.

"Trust me. You don't know the half of it."

The room is quiet for a second. I cast a glance at the clock – it's already ten past eight. The rain has long since ceased, though my clothes are still a bit damp. Outside, the hum of traffic has increased to a roar. I can't understand why Muggles insist on using their blasted horns all the time.

"Hey Nora," I nod at the clock, "that means we can leave now, does it not?"

She casts a lethargic glance at the clock, saying, "Damn, you're right."

"You all go ahead. I've got closing covered."

Nora raises an eyebrow, at which he grins. "You sure?"

"'Course," he waves us towards the door, "I can handle this for one night."

She doesn't press the issue anymore, pulling me off the floor instead and saying, "You're a fucking saint, Dan!" as we walk out the front door.

The night air is cool, and feels cleaner since the downpour. After the door's shut Nora turns to me, wearing the devilish near-smile of hers I've come to know so well.

"I hope you're ready to get plastered," she says, "because I sure as hell am."

"Darling, I've never been more ready," I retort. She bites her lip, attempting to mask her widening smile.

"Don't darling me," she counters. Rather than wait for my response, she pulls me down the stairs and in the direction of Nick's house. It's only when her pace has slowed that I'm conscious of her fingers, still tightly laced within mine. Instinctively, I grip her hand a bit more firmly.


	10. Chapter 10

"No way. No fucking way am I going in there."

"Sirius," Nora moans, rolling her eyes as if I'm being ridiculous.

"No," I say firmly, "lacking in morals though I may be, I'm not drinking alcohol in a graveyard."

She'd dragged me back to Nick's house, where I'd waited outside for about thirty seconds while Nora retrieved a brown paper bag and a backpack. Then we'd walked a couple blocks more, heading towards some place she refused to tell me. Now I understand her reluctance.

"What's the issue? The principle of it? Or," she leans closer to me, an impish smirk flickering on her lips, "are you scared of the dead?"

I bite my tongue because, Gryffindor though I may be, getting drunk on top of someone's corpse admittedly creeps me out. But there's no way in hell I'm telling Nora that.

"Whatever," I exhale, "lead the way, love."

She cackles at my reluctance, though she still leads me through the graveyard gate.

"There aren't ghosts here, anyways," she explains while walking, "they seem to avoid Muggle graveyards for the most part. And, here, we won't run into issues with either the police or our parents," she slows her pace slightly, "your parents do know you'll be out all night, don't they?"

"No," I say, "but I doubt they'll care. And even if they do, I don't."

"That's the spirit," she comes to a full stop now. We're situated deeply enough in the graveyard that we can no longer be seen from the street. The majority of graves seem to be rather old, and the majority of trees seem about two days away from their death. She slides her backpack onto the sparse grass, placing the paper bag down more gently. After unzipping her backpack, she pulls out a quilt and spreads it neatly on the ground.

"Take a seat," she gestures to the ragged blanket. I plop onto the ground, and Nora quickly follows suit. She rummages around in her backpack again before pulling out a glass that couldn't hold any more than a gulp of liquid. After tossing that between us, she reaches for the brown paper bag.

"I'll warn you now, this is going to be revolting," the bag crinkles loudly, and she pulls out a rather large glass bottle.

"Raspberry Smirnoff," she announces like that means something to me

"I've got no clue what that means," I respond.

"Well, you're going to find out," twisting the cap off, she picks the miniscule glass back up and cautiously pours liquid in. She then hands the glass to me, saying, "Don't let it sit on your tongue."

Without a hint of caution, I shoot the liquid into my mouth. When the alcohol hits my throat my stomach flips so hard I nearly spit it back out.

"Jesus Christ!" I cough, "What the fuck are you feeding me, woman?"

She doesn't respond, as she's taking a draught straight from the bottle. She grimaces, though by the time she pulls the bottle from her lips she's smirking again.

"Keep going," she hands the bottle back to me, "it's worth it, I promise."

With barely a shrug, I take the glass from her hand and pour myself another shot of it. When I anticipate the sting I'm better able to prevent it. By the time I'm taking my third, I barely taste it.

"Careful there," she grabs the bottle from my hand, "as this is your first time, it probably won't take you much to get drunk. And if you drink it all too fast you'll just pass out."

"Whatever you say," I lean back, resting my head on the top of the quilt. I still don't feel any different, but I'll trust Nora's judgment on this matter. "Where do your parents think you are right now?"

"Sleeping at Nick's," she takes another gulp of booze, before continuing, "they trust him, and he'll cover for me."

"Hmm," I gesture towards the bottle, and she hands it to me. After taking another, smaller drink, I ask, "So if he owns a house, and he's totally cool with this, why aren't we getting drunk there?"

"He's an annoying drunk," she shrugs, "I don't want to deal with that."

"Ouch," I whistle, "I hope that's not the reason you gave him?"

"'Course not. I told him we were going to shag."

"No fucking way- holy shit."

In my excitement, I'd sat up a little bit faster than I'd anticipated. The world around me is now spinning, hazy and bright.

"This is fucking weird," I murmur. My head feels like lead on my neck. Nora's grinning face is beginning to blur.

"I'm assuming it's hitting you then?" she asks. I laugh at the question.

"If not, you should probably be taking me to a hospital. This is not normal," I move my head, looking around the graveyard. Everything's moving so much more slowly than usual. Beeping, shouting – sounds that I typically barely notice - seem to have been amplified, blaring in my eardrum. My brain's getting woozy from the overload.

"I'm not sure this was a good idea," I say.

"Trust me," she takes another huge gulp from the bottle, before capping it and setting it to the side. "It was a phenomenal idea."

We lie quietly, side by side, enjoying the effects of alcohol and each other's company. It's late enough now that most of the air has cooled down. Though it's still humid as hell, it's at least not sweltering to boot. Despite my early misgivings I've become rather comfortable in the graveyard.

"How'd you ever figure that this would be a good place to get drunk?" I ask, lolling my head towards Nora. She doesn't turn to face me, instead looking at the sky above us. I look up as well, so I can take in the same sights. The smoggy air spurs a rather painful longing for Hogwarts' clear skies.

"I used to come here a lot," her voice is higher than usual – whether or not this is due to the alcohol, I couldn't say. "This is where they buried my mom, of course."

"Oh, of course," I jerk my eyes from the stars and almost jump upright, exclaiming, "what?"

She chews her lip, still avoiding eye contact. "Yeah. I could have lead with that, I guess."

"Where is she?" I take a more careful look at the tombstones, searching for a fresher grave. "Wait, you'll get to that. Continue your story."

"Whatever," she rolls her eyes. "I visited my mom a lot, the first few years after. Just because I missed her and all. My first foster home was really good – my favorite so far. But my foster mom got pregnant, and they couldn't afford to keep me around. My second home was," she exhales slowly, and her eyes gloss, "less good. I spent a lot of nights out here – just to get away from it all, you know?" I nod, "Eventually my social worker moved me. But during that time I realized I could do pretty much anything out here without getting caught."

It's only after she's ceased talking that she seems to realize the amount of personal information she's divulged. Lethargically, she pulls herself up. Even through my own haze, I can tell she's wobbling.

"That's heavy shit, man," I make an attempt at sympathy. She cackles at the effort.

A huge grin spreads across her face, though she tries to hide it, and through giggles she stammers, "Yeah, real heavy. Now that you mention it I can barely lift it."

I glare at her for three, maybe four seconds before we both burst into hysterics.

"That was, by far, the stupidest thing that's ever come out of your mouth," I say.

"Oh fuck off! Do you even listen to yourself talk?" she says, "You spew that kind of shit at least three times a day."

"Hey!" I exclaim, grinning ear to ear, "I think that means I'm rubbing off on you!"

She groans, flopping back onto the blanket, "Don't say that!"

"Who knows," I lean over her, still beaming, "maybe you'll end up getting pretty like me as well."

"No way," she rolls over to face me. She reaches her hand out and touches my face, saying, "You're way too pretty!"

I choke back a laugh, replying, "Oh really? You think I'm pretty?"'

"Shut up!" she yells. She throws her arms over her face, though I see a blush creep over her cheeks anyways. She mumbles, "You know what I mean!"

"Quite to the contrary, actually," I sigh dramatically, "if you could make me a list, darling, of all the things which contribute to this beauty you speak of-"

At this point Nora reaches out and smacks me, rather sloppily, on my nose.

"You talk," she exhales, "so much."

"Defense mechanism," I admit. "You said something that could've very nearly been uncomfortable, but my big mouth went right along and fixed it."

"Well, now I'm uncomfortable," she grumbles.

"I was aiming to do that, as well."

She glares at me, but her look quickly softens. With a look not quite melancholy, but not neutral either, she asks, "What's it like, to be pretty?"

I gape at her for a moment, pulling myself enough together to ask, "Do you think you're not?"

"That's not the question," her eyes slide away from mine, focusing on my neck, "I'm not as pretty as you are. People don't go out of their way to look at me, like they do you."

It strikes me now, that I find Nora to be very pretty indeed. I'm overcome with an urge to convey this to her, but my stomach ties into knots at the thought so I save it for another time – perhaps when I'm drunker.

I roll over, forcing her to meet my gaze. It's with a slight smirk I reply, "You know, as flattering as this is, a guy doesn't exactly fancy being called pretty."

She lowers her head entirely, mumbling, "Shut up. You know what I mean – it's easier to say pretty than anything else."

I blink, surprised. "No, actually. I'm not sure what you're trying to get at."

She chances a glance up, to discern whether or not I'm joking. When she finds my expression to be serious her eyes kind of widen. Tentatively, she says, "Well, you know. You're kind of - handsome, and what not."

I can smell the alcohol on her breath and I realized we've inched very close, aching to hear things more easily said in whispers. In the quiet, I can hear her slightest breath, can feel the soft heat radiating from her body. She stares at me with piercing blue eyes and I'm reminded of the first time I ever really encountered Nora Dotum.

"You?" I chuckle breathily, attempting to laugh away the lump in my throat, "You think I'm handsome?"

"Sure I do," she rolls her eyes, "how could I not?"

"I don't know," I exhale. It's something I've heard my whole life, that I'm good looking. But I guess it'd never clicked for me that Nora looked at people that way too.

"It never really occurred to me that you, you know, check people out."

She chuckles at this, "What, you think I'm an alien or something?"

"Alien?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Oh Christ. Wizards are so uncultured."

"There's no way you're going to explain what that means," I mutter.

She shakes her head, lazily, and lulls, "No way, Jose."

Without a retort, I reach over Nora and pick up the bottle. I'm shocked to find it nearly half empty – last time I held it, it was still nearly three quarters full. Nora can seriously drink.

I take a gulp – by now my senses are dull enough I don't notice the burn – before replacing the lid and tossing it back to her. Nora's returned to staring at the sky.

"The stars are ugly here," I murmur, following her gaze.

"That they are," she replies.

"There aren't even any stars," gesturing upwards, a little angrily, I say, "there's just a bunch of Muggle pollution. Trust them – Muggles, I mean – to fuck things up."

Without looking from the sky, she tosses her hand over top of my mouth.

"Sirius," she murmurs, "you talk too much. If you just shut up for just half a second, you'll appreciate the view."

I take her advice, looking intently above me. And, slowly but surely, the cloudy air does manage to soothe me. Things that annoyed me previously – the slightly too warm air, the grass poking through the blanket – all sink soothingly into my bones.

But tranquility gets boring pretty fast. Childishly, I lick Nora's hand. She shoots her fingers off my face, jumping upwards with a little shriek.

"What the fuck?" she exclaims. I shrug in return.

"You're seriously fucked up," she mutters, lying cautiously back on the ground. I'm unfazed.

"You should know better than to get handsy with me, love," I say.

"I'm seriously going to punch you someday," she replies. I groan, because I know she doesn't mean it, and I've heard this threat a thousand times before.

The graveyard goes silent once more. My head feels like lead, and my eyelids are beginning to heavy. I keep them open for Nora's sake – god forbid I fall asleep before she does – and attempt to find something to concentrate on. Against my will, my eyes keep falling on her face.

"Take a picture," she lulls, "it'll last longer."

And I know she doesn't actually think I'm checking her out, and really, I'm not. But I feel drawn to the freckles on her skin, the wrinkles in her tank top and the haze in her eyes.

"No need to be a dick," I reply, "I'm just drunk."

"Are you though?"

I move my head, observing my spiraling surroundings.

"Yeah," I say, "I'm pretty drunk."

"Good," she turns to me, lying entirely on her side, "that means I've achieved my goal."

An evil, evil notion occurs to me, and with a slowly growing smirk I say, "You want a prize?"

Contempt drops from her face, and she warily nudges herself backwards.

"What're you thinking, Black?"

I dart my hand behind Nora, grabbing the bottle and popping the cap off. I see realization strike fear into her eyes, but she's just a second too late. By the time she's sitting upright I've already dumped vodka all over her head.

"What the fuck!" she exclaims while I roar with laughter. I didn't pour much – there's still a healthy amount of liquid in the bottle – but her hair's dripping wet, and bound to reek for days.

"You are an absolute child," she sits back down with an almost pouty expression.

"Did you expect anything more?"

After a moment, she sighs, "No. I guess I didn't."

I watch her, soggy and sniffing, until she mutters, "I'm freezing now, I hope you know."

I shrug, "Is that my problem?"

She rests her head on my chest, and my heart kicks.

"Now it is," she grumbles, vibrating my chest with the motion of her jaw. While I can feel liquid seeping into my shirt, I'm not about to tell her to move.

"Glad I could be of use," I say. The statement was supposed to be bitter, but with her head weighing down my lungs the words sound strained.

"You should be," she mumbles.

"You're gonna have to return the favor one day, mark my words. And I'm certain your chest will be MUCH more comfortable."

I expect a response – rage, or scathing sarcasm, or something – so when Nora doesn't answer I look down in alarm. I can't see her face over her mess of dark hair, but if I push my head up I can see her eyes are closed.

"I'll lord this one over you for years," I say quietly. I've never seen Nora sleep before; I'm almost astonished that she's capable of it. But I can sympathize with her lethargy. My eyes are heavy as well. I put my arms around her, snuggling close for warmth, and close my eyes wondering, all things considered, who gets to tease who for this in the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time I wake up the night has faded to gray, and my arms are empty. It takes a second for me to register why that vacancy feels odd.

I jerk upright, thinking, for a second, Nora's already left. A laugh echoes behind me.

"You think I'd ditch you that fast?" Nora says. She's in the midst of packing up. She's already zipped up her backpack; the brown bag is empty, and the bottle of alcohol is nowhere to be found.

"Yeah," I deadpan. She laughs again – hangovers put her in a good mood, apparently – before shooing me off the blanket so she can finish cleaning.

Neither of us dare mention what'd happened the night before.

But she does show me her mother's grave on our way out. She doesn't say anything, nor does she cease walking. She nudges me and nods, to our right, while we're walking out.

The tombstone is a little fresher than the rest, though it's beginning to show signs of wear. The plate reads "Margaret Dotum" and, while I'd suspected what Nora was pointing out, seeing the surname etched in stone triggers a pang of emotion I can't quite put my finger on. Nora refuses to stop, so the only respect I can give Mrs. Dotum is a slight smile.

I walk her home, despite her protests she can make the trip alone. I'd rather walk a little more with her than go straight back to my place. Her protests are feeble anyways.

Our talk is sparse and light. After bonding last night, neither of us feels any urge to force conversation. I'm still fairly exhausted, and I'd guess she is too. I say goodbye when she's reached Nick's doorstep and head home with every intention of sleeping all day.

Of course, my life isn't that easy.

As soon as I've opened the door my mother is flying down the halls, shrieking about respect and responsibility and not staying out all night. My very heart shrivels at the sound, and I'm so tired and so eager to escape from this goddamned house that I sit quietly and take the lecture.

"I'm sorry Mum," I murmur once she grows quiet. "I fell asleep in the park, swear to God. It won't happen again."

She's flustered by my apparent remorse. After spluttering a bit more, she barks, "Make sure it doesn't happen again!" and marches back into the kitchen.

I sleep for a good part of the day, waking up around four in the afternoon. The sun's barely peeking through the clouds, as if it's just rising, too. With nothing better to do, I pull on a fresh set of clothes and set off for another evening at the record store.

I pass the next three days with Nora, either at the record store or at her foster sibling's house. While we don't abuse substances again, her foster siblings turn out to be extraordinarily cool people - albeit weird ones. I'd have never chosen to hang out with them, even if they were wizards. But now that I have, I wouldn't consider myself worse for wear.

I'm almost reluctant to leave for James' house; if it weren't for my freak show of a family, I probably would've choose to spend the summer in London. It's strange to think that not long ago Nora was barely a friend. Now, the knowledge that I won't see her for two months prompts a dull ache in my chest.

The night before I leave we sit together outside, talking while the moon wastes away above us. I tell her to write, and she says she will, and I believe her. I tell her to visit, and she says she'll try, but we both know she won't.

* * *

><p>"I think I'm in love."<p>

"I love you too mate, but I don't feel the urge to bring it up at three am. Go to fucking sleep."

"No, man, I'm being serious."

James rolls over in his bed so he can face me. We're sleeping in his guest room; his room's got one queen bed, as opposed to the set of twins in here. Typically he'll sleep in his room, and I'll stay here, but as I've only just arrived we both spend the night in the guest room. Darkness fell hours ago, but in the light of the moon I can see him scrutinizing me. When he's assured I'm serious he becomes serious, too.

"For how long?"

"That I've been in love? Or that I've known?"

His shoulders move under the covers. "Both, I guess."

I chew my cheek, thinking the question over. "I don't know how long I've been in love. It started before summer, maybe, but I wouldn't have called that love. Just intrigue, or something," I exhale, "how can you tell if you're in love, anyways?"

Across the room, James lets out an uncharacteristically melancholy sigh.

"I had my epiphany looking at other girls. I realized that, though I could acknowledge plenty of other women as more attractive physically, somehow they never held a candle to her."

I consider the statement for a second.

"Fuck."

* * *

><p>It's already light when I wake up the following morning. I love the Potter's house; the sheets are softer and the air is quieter. The house itself seems to be at peace. It helps that the first thing I smell is bacon.<p>

I follow my nose downstairs. James is already sitting at the table, while his mother's watching a variety of breakfast foods simmer over the stove.

"I love this house," I groan, sliding into the chair across James'.

"You _love_ it, do you?" James wags his eyebrow. The malice in his eyes sends shivers down my spine.

I cross my arms, glaring at him. "Yeah. Is there an issue with that, James?"

"I was just wondering how you know you love it," he sighs, "I mean, with love being such a difficult thing to define and all – "

"Breakfast's ready!" Mrs. Potter thrusts three dishes on the table between us. Which is good, because I was about to leap across that space and beat the living shit out of James.

"And James, leave poor Sirius alone," she scolds with him with an expression that's nearly disapproving, "the poor kid's got enough to deal with without you being a prick. Really."

"Mum!" he exclaims, "You're supposed to have my back!"

"Thanks Mum!" I say through a mouthful of eggs.

She waves me off, "Anything for my favorite child!"

I laugh, while James slumps into a pout.

"She's never this mean when you're not here," he grumbles. He stabs bacon onto his plate with unnecessary violence.

"Aw, come on mate, you can't keep comparing yourself to me. You'll wear yourself out."

His gaze is absolutely seething, but his mouth is stuffed too full of food for him to make a retort.

"We have any plans for the rest of the summer?" I distract him.

At this his eyes light up, all traces of bitterness falling from his expression.

"Oh, do we ever have plans…"

This, of course, meant he had absolutely no plans for the following month. But that's just how James and I like our time – unburdened with responsibilities, and filled with potential.

James spends the first hour of the day trying to convince me to play Quidditch with him, an attempt that ultimately fails; if it's just me and James, the game really isn't any fun. We manage to waste two hours more complaining about how bored we are, and how boring everything around us is, until we finally garner up the energy to trek into the nearby town. It's a Muggle town, and not nearly as interesting of one as London is. But there're people there, and with people come things to do.

The town's pretty small, with shops on only two of its streets and residential houses surrounding. If I were a girl I might describe it as quaint. But, as I'm a guy, I'm more liable to call it a shithole. The streets themselves are fairly clean, as there are so few of them, but the architecture is ancient; the bricks are either faded dark or washed white, and ivy's begun to crawl over second story windows. James and I counted the buildings one summer, and learned that there are four restaurants, two clothing shops, a grocery, a pharmacy, a library, and a Muggle magic store. You can guess where we spend the most time.

Although you'll have guessed wrong.

Interesting though the magic store is, leafing through the same twelve shelves day in and day out gets rather tedious. Messing with Mr. Mulligan, however, does not.

Mulligan is a very Irish, very irritable old man who runs an upscale woman's fashion boutique. How he came into this line of business is anyone's guess; he wears the same brown suits every day and drinks scotch out of a flask behind the counter. His hobbies include eating, drinking, and hunting. But I digress.

Now Mulligan has long since banned us from the premise, but that's never deterred James and I from coming. Much as he threatens to call the police, he hasn't once done more than pick up the phone. I think he likes having us around – makes his day more exciting.

We slide inside the store as quietly as possible. It's a cute little place, decorated in lace and soft pastels; I'd have guessed Mulligan's wife had chosen the décor, if only he'd had one. I glance to the counter and find Mulligan occupied, sorting through papers of some sort. James nods once at me, grinning devilishly, and we split up to begin one of our favorite games. He heads straight for the clearance rack, while I grab a handful of dresses from the front. We glide past each other, quiet and serious, and I replace the clothing James removed with the ones I have. Silently, we move dresses back and forth until the most expensive are all stashed under the sign that reads fifty percent off. Then we sit back and wait.

The women who've already been shopping steer clear of everything we've touched, shooting disapproving glances our way. But newcomers trickle in, and as they find their way to the back of the shop they seem to be pleased with the merchandise. The line to the register starts piling up, and women have more and more clothes slung over their arms.

We watch through gaps in the clothing, choking back laughter, as Mulligan's expression changes from cheerful, to incredulous, to enraged.

Finally, he bellows, "BOYS! I KNOW YOU'RE IN HERE!"

I nearly stumble as James pushes me forwards, recovering into a graceful saunter.

"Christ, Mulligan, it's been ages, hasn't it?" I exclaim, waving merrily.

"I think, dare I say, the chap's missed us," James nudges me.

"I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU ALL," his customers duck away from the spit flying from his mouth, "TO NEVER COME IN THIS PLACE AGAIN!"

"Did you, now?" James and I exchange a look, and I say, "Well, God, Mulligan, it's been so long. You can hardly expect us to remember that kind of thing."

Mulligan's absolutely shaking with rage. Customers are slyly dropping their items on shelves and sliding from the building.

"GET OUT!" he shouts. His hand's already halfway to the phone when he says, "I'M CALLING THE POLICE ON YOU NOW, I REALLY MEAN IT!"

While we both doubt he'll follow through, James and I've agreed not to push our luck. We sprint from the shop, shooting across the street and running three blocks before stopping.

I'm bent half over, out of breath from both running and laughing. James has collapsed to the ground, wheezing twice as badly as I am.

"So," I exhale between pants, "you think tomorrow we should pass out flyers?"

He perks his head slightly off the concrete, "The fake sale gag?"

I shrug, "It's as good a place to start as any."

He seems to consider the idea, though I think he's catching his breath more than he's thinking. After a few seconds he springs to his feet with a renewed vigor.

"Well in that case, we better get to the library before it closes."

He jets off towards the library without as much as a glance to see if I'm following. I don't know where the kid gets all his energy from, but I could definitely do with a piece of it.


	12. Chapter 12

The summer passes in a similar, blissful blur. Laziness was redefined, sleep schedules were brutalized and mischief was – dare I say – managed. While heat steadily increased through July, James and I found new and creative ways to harass the Muggle population. Moony arrived within the first week of August, and Wormtail quickly followed. After the Marauders reunited deeds didn't change much, but the additional voices were appreciated. James is my best friend in the world; if I were stranded on a desert island, I wouldn't want anyone but him stranded with me. But we are weirdly similar, and while that seldom bothers me I suspect Mrs. Potter was beginning to lose her mind.

I would've dreaded the start of September were it not for the promise of seeing Nora. She wrote throughout the summer, as promised. She even sent me sketches every once and a while - sketches of people, sketches of London, sketches of things she could only have seen in dreams. This solved one mystery for me; the question of the papers in the common room, always so well concealed on her lap. The fact that she trusted me with her work gave me an irrational amount of pride. I cherished it as proof of a real, mutual bond, proof that our connection was not something I alone invented, as I sometimes fear. I promised myself that, when school resumed, I'd make an effort to work Nora into my life so I can see her in the light of day. As I've had time to think, I've become curious as to what she's like in normal settings; what she does when she's bored in Charms, how much homework she gets around to doing and if she eats supper early or late. James says daydreaming is a common side effect of one sided love. He's instructed Peter and Remus to ignore me when I enter such a state.

While I wouldn't call the months at James' house boring, there was one event that struck me as particularly notable. It occurred maybe four days before September first, and cast a menacing shadow over the rest of my stay.

James, Remus, Peter and I had all just woken up, and were seated around the kitchen table while Mrs. Potter fixed sandwiches; she refused to make us breakfast, as it was already half past noon. It was a nice day, bright enough that the room was lit solely by sunlight, and a gentle breeze brought the scent of Mrs. Potter's roses inside the house. She put a pile of food in front of us and we eagerly dug in, fully aware that any hesitance would lead to smaller portions. Meals with the Marauders are a dog-eat-dog ordeal.

We only stopped eating when Mrs. Potter said, "Sirius, it seems you've got some mail."

My head snapped up, and the boys fell silent. I was expecting to see the small brown owl – Garfunkel – that belonged to Nora. My heart sunk when I recognized the huge, silvery bird in the window.

"It's my folks," I grumbled, pushing my chair loudly from the table. Instantly, the smirk on James' face slid off. Remus and Peter resumed eating, doubly interested in their sandwiches.

After I'd taken the envelope from the owl it flew off. I observed the letter carefully, expecting it to be a howler. But the paper was light, and after studying the handwriting on the front – my first name, penned in neat, crisp cursive – I recognized it. And it wasn't my mothers.

I tore the top of the envelope off and unfolded the sheet of paper inside. The letter wasn't long, and it wasn't signed. The content was nevertheless disturbing.

It read, very simply:

_Sirius,_

_ I think I may be in trouble. I think I may need help._

It had to be from Regalus. No one else in my household would approach me for help – save Kreatcher, perhaps, but I thought he was still a few years short of realizing my mother's psychotic tendancies. Jokes aside, the fact that Regalus was asking me for help meant something was very, very wrong.

I sighed, crumbling the paper in my palm. Life had resumed around me. Despite the renewed conversation, I felt everyone's eyes on me as I approached the furnace and tossed the letter in. I didn't know what he could've gotten himself into, and until I did there wasn't anything much I could do. If he approached me again, gave me more information, I would do something in a heartbeat. But until then I was perfectly content with inaction.

Well, maybe not perfectly. But I didn't lose too much sleep over it.

* * *

><p>"Guys, hold up. I think I may've dropped my wand."<p>

James stops, dead in the middle of King's Cross station, to turn around and stare Peter down. "I swear to god, if we have to share a compartment with first years because you can't keep track of your goddamned wand I'll-"

"Wait!" he's tearing through his things and freezes, wrist deep in his jacket pocket. "I've got it!"

"Thank god," I mutter. Next to me, Remus breathes a sigh of relief. We resume our rush to platform nine and three quarters – because, despite our best attempts to leave early, we're cutting it awfully close to departure time.

We reach the pillar between platforms nine and ten, gasping for breath but with a comfortable amount of time to spare. We linger in the Muggle area of the station to catch our breath. While we're waiting I catch glimpses familiar faces – Lily Evan's red head of hair disappears through the pillar, and Snivellus is skulking in from the opposite end of the station. I stand up straighter, looking around for more people I know. Looking out for my family, specifically. And, admittedly, hoping to see Nora.

Luck must be on my side today, because while the Blacks are nowhere to be found I can see a familiar, freckled face headed my way. Her two Muggle friends are in tow, along with Clara; she'd mentioned in recent letters that Clara was spending the final week of vacation in London. Her cart is overstuffed, and while she stoically attempts to stand straight, I can still tell she's tripping over herself trying to push it. I can't help but grin at her feeble attempt to save face. Remus elbows me – he and the others are ready to go through the pillar – but I wave them ahead. I'd resolved to befriend Nora, for real this time, and it would be strange if after two months apart I didn't greet her. I may never see her Muggle friends again, anyways. James casts a glance between me and the girl, and with a knowing smirk declares he'll wait for Remus and Peter to go first as well.

"I'll watch your shit," he says, nudging me forwards. I nod, grinning in return. It looks like Cindy and Nick are about to take off. They've stopped at station nine, I'd guess to shake of the Muggles. I can almost hear the conversation that's transpiring; Nick's laughing at some joke he himself just told, while Cindy rolls her eyes and Nora smirks, more at his reaction than the joke itself. Cindy hugs her goodbye, then waves politely to Clara. Clara doesn't take the hint, and goes to hug Cindy anyways. This prompts a chorus of laughter from the group. Clara detaches herself from Cindy, looking absolutely baffled.

Nick wraps Nora in a similar embrace. They pull apart, smiling, but he lingers close for a moment more. I can make out an intensity in his gaze from even thirty feet away, and my steps slow. And in a slow, predictable motion that crushes the glee in my chest like a needle taken to a balloon, he moves his face to hers.

For a second I cling to the slight, desperate hope that she'll pull away. But even from this distance I can see her push gently in return, can see her hand on his chest slide to his neck and her toes lift, so her face is on level with his. The last of my hope rushes out of me, leaving me feeling empty and aching.

I find myself comparing two scenarios: in the first I beat back the pain and grin, ignore the unfounded sting of betrayal and befriend Nora with no ulterior motive. In the other I pretend I never saw this, pretend that seeing her had never crossed my mind and convince myself I hadn't loved her for a second.

Perhaps being raised by Slytherins has made me petty, because I find myself spinning on my heels and walking back to James.

He's seen the entire event unfold, and looks at me with a mixed expression of pity and incredulity.

"Come on mate," he claps me on the back, pushing my stuff back towards me, "you can do so much better than Nora Dotum."

I can tell that, even while the words are leaving his lips, he knows this is exactly the wrong thing to say. He half smiles, half grimaces at me before running through the pillar. I follow after him, eager to get as far away from this situation as humanly possible.


End file.
